“But you see, dear old thing, I didn’t know your horse was going to stick his head under my nose when I sneezed.” Or: “But, my dear general, the weakness of the division lies in your staff. Now, if I were doing it——” By one o’clock in the afternoon the troop were ready to move. And Sergeant Gray went into the town. There he tried on a new uniform—and the story of Sergeant Gray’s new uniform is the story of the bran muffins. It was really a beautiful uniform. Almost it took away the sting of that telegram; almost it obliterated the memory of the wager. It spread over his broad shoulders and hugged his slim waist. The breeches were full above and close below. For the first time he felt every inch a soldier. He carried the old uniform back to camp and gave it to the cook. “Here, Watt!” he said. “You’ve been grumbling about clothes. Cut the chevrons off it, and it’s yours.” “Well, look who’s here!” said Watt admiringly. “Thought you fellows had to wear issue stuff.” “Laws are for slaves, Watt.” “Keep it nice,” observed the cook gracelessly. “You’ll need it for that breakfast with the general.” “Wait and see,” said Sergeant Gray jauntily, but with no hope in his heart. The new uniform was the cause of much invidious comment. Most of it resembled the cook’s. But Sergeant Gray was busy. To pass inspection he was obliged to borrow from the neighbouring beds, left unguarded, certain articles in which he was deficient, namely: Undershirt, cotton, one; socks, light wool, pairs, two; underbreeches, cotton, pairs, one. Thus miscellaneously assembled he passed inspection. He drew a deep breath, however, when no notice was taken of the new and forbidden uniform and when the photograph of Mrs. Bud Palmer still lay rolled up and undiscovered in his condiment can. During the afternoon he wandered over to the depot brigade and left his dog there with a lieutenant who had promised to look after him. The sense of depression and impending doom had overtaken him again. He stopped at the post exchange and bought a dozen doughnuts, which he carried with him in a paper bag. “Might feed him one of these now and then,” he suggested. “He’s going to miss me like the devil. He’s a nice mutt.” His voice was a trifle husky. “Not fond of bran muffins, I suppose?” The lieutenant’s voice was impersonal. Sergeant Gray eyed him suspiciously, but his eyes were on the dog. “Don’t know. Never tried them,” he said, and walked off with great dignity. So that was it, eh? It was all over the division already. Well, he’d show them! He’d——